


Hourglass

by beastofthesky



Series: Tangible [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Tangible!verse, Timestamp, human!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastofthesky/pseuds/beastofthesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of loosely-connected timestamps, taking place during Chapter 8 of Tangible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam frowns at the boxer briefs that Dean’s tossing onto his pile.

“Dude, those are mine,” he says. Dean frowns back at him.

“You sure, Samantha? I thought yours were pink and flowery.” Sam rolls his eyes and withholds what Dean would call a _hippie comment_ about society and oppressive gender roles.

“Those’re mine. Your butt’s bigger.” Dean’s frown turns into a glare.

“No, my _hips_ are _wider_ ,” he snaps, then slingshots the boxers in question at Sam’s head.

“Denial,” Sam teases with a laugh, then bumps Dean’s shoulder with a fist to reinforce that it’s all just fooling, that he’s still just riding the high of being around Dean again. They keep folding their crap for a couple more minutes (and _damn_ , Sam’s constantly surprised by how much crap he actually _owns_ ) before Sam really can’t take it any more. “Dean, what happened with Cas?”

By the way Dean stiffens instantly, Sam knows he’s gonna have to fight hard for a straight answer.

“Like you said,” Dean mutters gruffly, “he fucked up. I got over it.”

Oh, damn. Sam gets ready to pull out all the stops because this is gonna be a tough one.

“Dean, come on,” he says impatiently. Start with the impatience – get him worked up, emotional enough to start saying things, then sucker punch with the puppy-dog eyes. Sam’s got this down to an art. “You really expect me to believe that?”

“It’s none of your business,” he snaps. _Bingo_.

“Of course it’s my business,” Sam snaps back, “Cas is family to me, too. You never let anything like that go without a goddamn effort, you _know_ I know that.” Count to three. Cue the eyes. “Dean,” he follows up quietly, and _fuck yes_ , there’s the Dammit I Can’t Lie To Him face and the But How Do I Say This sigh.

“We fought, okay?” he says, throwing a shirt down onto his pile with a soft _ffmp_. “He said some crap and I said some crap and then suddenly I just–” He sighs and squares his shoulders. “God fuckin’ forbid I’m actually saying this, Sammy, but I let out all the crap I always keep in. You know, what you’re always on my case for doing.”

“But?”

“But it sucked. God, the crap I said–” Dean’s definitely avoiding his eyes. “But the stuff Cas said, it sucked too. We just– it was this giant shitstorm, and I was yelling, and he was yelling, and we kinda... you know, we hit each other a couple times, nothin’ too bad.” Sam’s pretty sure that the jeans in Dean’s hands are folded exactly in half, judging by the way he’s meticulously making sure the seams line up. “And then I realized that I was being a dick and Cas realized he was being a dick and that...” Dean looks up, almost annoyed now. “So fuckin’ help me god, Sam, family’s family no matter how bad they fuck up.”

Sam smiles at him because after all these months, Dean finally gets it – he finally realizes how much Cas means to him (and, by extension, to Sam) and he’s finally found a way to work around that knot of stubbornness that they both have.

“But speaking of which, you weren’t exactly too clear on why you’re buddy-buddy with Satan,” says Dean shrewdly, and it’s Sam’s turn to scramble for an answer.

“He saved my life.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said about Ruby,” Dean mutters.

“But this isn’t–”

“No, Sam, it’s just the freakin’ _devil_ ,” hisses Dean, keeping his voice down because the old guy in the corner has been giving them really weirded-out looks. Sam sighs and sets down the shirt he’d been halfway through folding.

“Okay, look, I know this sounds sketchy–” Dean snorts. “–but seriously, he’s, like, _obligated_ to keep me alive. He can’t exist up here without me, so...” Sam shrugs. “It’s not a perfect arrangement or anything, but it works.”

“Yeah, but you actually like the guy,” Dean counters, leaning on his stack of folded laundry with his arms crossed.

“He’s irritating,” Sam fires back, “he talks too much and he acts like a ten-year-old half the time. But on the flip side, I’m his vessel. There’s a reason we– I don’t know, _match up_.”

“Oh, so you’re telling me you want to burn the world now?”

Sam strongly considers throwing the bottle of laundry detergent at him.

“For fuck’s sake, Dean, you wouldn’t get it unless you’d said yes to one of those holy dicks,” he snaps. “It sucked, it wasn’t fun, I thought I was burning alive, but–”

“Whoa, Sam.” Dean cuts him off; he glares. “I was _kidding_. I swear. I already talked to Cas about your friend _Satan’s_ intentions. I just wanted to know your side of the story.”

_Oh_. Sam feels himself deflate like an old air mattress and he petulantly folds his last shirt.

“He saved my life,” he says again, more quietly. “A Leviathan attacked me, couple weeks ago. I didn’t have anything on me, and the next thing I know, Lucifer’s kicking the chomper’s ass halfway across the city. He snapped me out of, like, a hundred panic attacks on the way here. I wouldn’t have made it without him. So yeah, I like the guy.”

There’s a silence where he stares at Dean, _asking_ him to challenge that, and where Dean stares back, knowing there’s no possible way he can refute the fact that Lucifer is the one who constantly nudged Sam towards safety.

“Alright, now that we’ve got all the meaningless details out of the way,” Sam mutters, trailing off. He starts packing his clothes back into the duffel (because it’s definitely time to go home and have a beer) but then he realizes that Dean’s wearing one of his biggest, most shit-eating grins ever.

“C’mon, Sam,” he says, and Sam’s got a couple of milliseconds to think oh god no, “details are important. The Devil’s in the details, you know.”

“I swear to god, Dean, if you keep that up I’ll hurt you.”

“Guess I’ll have the Devil to pay, huh?”

“You know what? Fuck you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sam had had a feeling, a particularly _nasty_ gut feeling, that things’d end up like this. From the second Cas had gone pissy and Dean had gone moody a couple nights ago to Dean snapping something _really_ uncalled-for at Cas about the God/Purgatory thing to Dean storming out for a midnight liquor run to Cas stalking after him, grabbing a jacket and violently sticking his arms through it, inside-out, yelling, “ _Dean Winchester_ , don’t you dare walk away,” in a low snarl that made Lucifer raise his eyebrows.

So yeah, when he gets the phone call at 2:17am, it’s with the tingle of an I Told You So on his lips.

It dies, however, when he hears that Dean’s voice is at breaking point and there’s a PA in the background and all he gets is Dean babbling, “knew I shouldn’t have” and “he’s human” and “oh my god, Sammy, I’m gonna throw up” and “what if” and Sam’s got his shoes half-on by the time he can get a word in edgewise.

When he gets to the hospital, Dean’s slumped in a chair near Radiology. When he finally sees Sam, he jumps to his feet like he’s been electrocuted.

“Dean, what happened?” he asks quickly, before Dean can start babbling again. Dean takes a couple minutes to swallow, during which Sam notes a split lip, bruised cheekbone, and a messily-cleaned bloody-and-or-broken nose that looks like it’s been recently set.

“God, Sam, I–” He looks around, wild-eyed, and Sam grounds him with a hand to the shoulder. “Some drunk blew through the intersection of Manhattan and Jupiter, it was a red light and we had a green, I didn’t stop fast enough and I was– we were– d’you know what I _said_ to him?”

“Dean, calm d–”

“I told him he–”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says loudly, and shakes him. “What are the doctors saying?”

Evidently that’s the wrong fucking thing to bring up because Dean nearly flies into a panic again and his hand comes up, way too tight on Sam’s forearm.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” he replies, frustrated and scared, “he’s in for an MRI because he’s– I mean, he was unconscious and the guy hit the passenger side.” Dean looks at him with the kind of fear he only reserves for when family’s in danger.

Sam’s spared talking around the lump in his throat when a doctor walks out of Radiology.

“You’re Castiel’s family?” the doctor asks, and all he and Dean can do is nod. “Well, I’m glad to tell you it’s nothing but a sprained wrist and a mildly severe concussion,” he continues, and judging by the way Dean grabs his arm, his knees are about to give out. “We’ll keep him here overnight, just in case. I’ll let you know as soon as we get him to his room.”

The grin on Dean’s face is one of the most beautiful things that Sam’s ever seen.

\---

Dean’s awake the second Cas makes a quiet noise and reaches clumsily for his glass of water. He watches silently as Cas drains the glass, absently studies the IV in his hand then rubs at his neck, all the while stealing glances back at Dean. The clock reads 5:39am.

“Cas?” he asks quietly. He stands up and Cas swings his legs over the side of the bed and the blinds in the little hallway-window are open but he doesn’t care, just pulls Cas close to him and _breathes._

“Dean, I’m so sorry,” comes Cas’s voice, muffled in his shoulder, and his non-IV’d, non-sprained hand is digging into Dean’s back.

“I know, baby, I know,” he whispers back, “and god, I’m sorry too.” He laughs, self-deprecating and breathless. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you again. You’re getting dangerously close to Sammy on the list of shit I can’t lose, man.”

He can feel Cas’s smile against his neck and yeah, things are gonna be okay.

Lucifer wakes Sam up at six in the morning with his restlessness but Sam yawns, reminds him that visiting hours don’t start until eight, wraps an arm around his chest, and goes back to sleep for an hour.

It’s a fucking miracle that Dean had taken their crap car instead of the Impala because Dean probably would have spontaneously combusted if he’d broken both Cas _and_ his baby. Sam takes comfort in her deep purr as they drive _carefully_ and watchfully towards the hospital.

Dean relaxes the second he and Lucifer walk into the room; Lucifer takes one glance at Cas and gets so furious that the lights crackle and the electrical surge he causes makes several alarmed RNs bolt into Cas’s room, scared that he’d managed to both flatline and get skyrocketing blood pressure in the same span of seven seconds.

“ _Dude_ ,” says Dean, after the completely baffled nurses leave. “Little overboard.”

Sam chooses not to highlight the fact that Dean was practically in hysterics last night.

“You know,” Lucifer says to him, almost conversationally, “technically it’s _your_ fault that Cas is in this situation. You know, human. And vulnerable.”

“Whoa, whoa–” Sam butts in quickly because this is going to turn into 50 Reasons I Hate Humanity And The Winchesters In Particular if he doesn’t do something. He grabs Lucifer by the shoulder and thinks as much hippie/zen/calm-down-right-now crap as he possibly can, hoping that Lucifer will pick up on it. Static shock numbs his palm. “Guys, seriously, if anyone’s at fault, it’s the drunk guy. And he’s in a coma for his trouble.”

“Thank you, Sam,” says Cas loudly over both Dean and Lucifer trying to protest, which ends the conversation. “Dr. Sharaf says I should be–” There’s two quiet knocks on the door, and then it swings open and the doctor from last night smiles at Sam in recognition.

“Speak of the devil,” Dean says, sending a wicked grin at Lucifer. “Cas was just sayin’ he’d be able to go home tonight.” Sam’s annoyance at his brother and Lucifer bitching like six-year-olds evaporates when he feels Lucifer’s childish glee at Dean’s sense of humor.

Dr. Sharaf wanders over to Cas and takes a look at the blooming bruise on his temple, checks some charts, squeezes gently at his wrist.

“He’s certainly in a stable condition,” he answers with one of those serene smiles. “The sprain looks like it’s doing well enough not to warrant a splint, as long as you’re careful.” As a general rule Sam hates doctors, but he kinda digs this one – he’s got the whole calm-without-being-condescending-and-dickish thing going on. “I don’t think we were introduced last night?” He holds a hand out to Lucifer, who – bless him – looks taken aback at the politeness.

“Luc,” he finally says, taking the doctor’s hand. “I’m Castiel’s brother.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re glad to know he’s safe,” says Sharaf, and turns back to Cas. “You should be good to go around five this afternoon. I can get you started on the paperwork now.”

“Thank you,” Cas replies, and Sam thinks that smiles really do look great on him.


	3. Chapter 3

The problem with the Devil is that once you get over the fact that he’s the Devil, the dude’s pretty likeable.

Dean comes to this grumpy realization as he’s standing in line at the grocery store.

He’s kind of like a carbon copy of Sam but with Gabriel’s fucked-up sense of humor, which means that Dean’s finally got someone who’ll actually appreciate all of his grade-A pranks. Cas is too _stuffy_ for that kind of levity and, well, Sam’s generally the one who gets pranked.

There’s also the fact that Satan has saved Sam’s ass a bunch of times on the few hunts they’ve been on, not to mention the falling-bookshelf thing with Cas and the one time Dean only escaped being buried alive because Lucifer got to him in time. So, okay, it took him a while to not distrust the Devil (which _jesus christ_ that sounds terrible, now that he thinks about it) but in the end, that’s what’s keeping Sam safe and sane and (mostly) happy so he’s not going to complain.

The bundle of firewood under his arm is poking at him even under his coat; part of him wants to call this whole thing off because it’s stupid and childish but honestly, that’s the reason he wants to do it. He’s a total sucker for when Sam gets that little-kid look in his eyes and ‘we have a _fireplace_ ’ led to ‘but no firewood’ led to ‘Dean, we haven’t had s’mores in years!’ led to ‘what’s a s’more?’ and, well, Dean can’t live properly knowing that Cas has never tasted a s’more.

So that’s how he ends up grocery shopping with Satan.

Who, naturally, picks the most expensive chocolate bars the store has to offer. In the end, it’s all technically non-existent money that’s paying for all of this so Dean doesn’t really care, but it’s been drilled into him to get what’s cheapest so it rubs him the wrong way, just a bit.

“So, you and Castiel,” says Lucifer conversationally, and Dean hits his head on the open trunk of the Impala.

“ _Fucking_ – what do you mean?” he says, through gritted teeth. His eyes are watering as he shuts the trunk door and then slides behind the wheel.

“Oh, you know,” Lucifer continues airily after climbing in, “things like the fact that Castiel has never slept in the spare room. Not that Sam’s noticed. That kid’s shrewd as hell, but some things just–” He gestures, hand passing over his head, and makes a _wsshhht_ noise. “–doesn’t even register.”

“Do you have a point?” asks Dean stiffly.

It’s not that he’s _embarrassed_ about whatever it is he has with Cas, or that he’s trying to hide it, but Sam has this way of being a total fucking _girl_ about anything related to feelings. He still cringes when remembering Sam’s reaction to Cassie. If Sam hasn’t _picked up on it_ or whatever, that’s not his problem.

Things are suspiciously quiet for the next mile and a half, and then Dean decides that what the hell, Lucifer already kinda sorta knows what’s going on.

“He has nightmares. You know, about Falling. And what he did.”

Lucifer snorts elegantly.

“Can you blame him?” he murmurs quietly, and he’s either reading Dean’s mind or somehow tuning in to Sam’s ability to read him, because he goes on to answer Dean’s unasked question. “It’s not the Fall that kills you, you know. It’s the sudden stop at the end. Castiel’s been cooked extra-well-done, what with his Grace getting–” Lucifer pauses, just for a split second, like he’s trying to find the appropriate word for such heresy. “–removed.”

Dean’s at a loss for words because the guilt is making his throat burn, choking him, crawling through the insides of his stomach like acid. It’s his fault that Cas is in this shithole of a situation, it’s all his fault.

He changes the subject, shoves it all into that dark box he never opens.

“But _you’re_ not.... human,” he says. “I– what even _are_ you?” Now that he thinks about it, he probably should’ve asked this question ages ago. Sam probably should have asked it ages ago, because he’s pretty sure Sam’s also got no idea, either. “And don’t even think about quoting the Stones.”

“So what’s confusing you is just the nature of my game?”

“ _Ha_ ha, fuck you.” Lucifer chuckles and it’s another thing digging under his skin, that the Devil laughs the same way that Sam does. “Seriously, though.”

Lucifer shrugs. “I’m what Sam needs me to be.”

Dean raises his eyebrows and says, “Not helping, dude.” Lucifer sighs impatiently.

“It’s not like you could actually understand,” he says, with an undertone of Humans Suck. “Okay, fine. Put it this way. Your brother is what’s anchoring me here right now. All I’m allowed to do is be the angel on his shoulder, because that’s what he needs.” Dean shoots him a skeptical look at that. “I can’t let him die, so grow up and stop freaking out about it.”

“Right, because you’d both go back to the Pit,” muses Dean right as Lucifer adds, “I like him too much.”

Ringing silence.

“ _Oh_ -kay,” Dean says loudly, eyebrows up, “I’ll just take that at face value.”

Lucifer stares at him and holy hell, that’s uncomfortable – he’s got the same kind of piercing, chilly glare that he’s always gotten from Cas. It must run in the family, that stare that makes you wonder if every angel actually has x-ray vision.

“You think you’re the only person who cares about Sam,” says Lucifer flatly, and it’s not a question.

“I– Well, no, there’s–”

“The Cage is different from the rest of Hell, Dean,” he continues, and Dean is so glad they’re at a red light because his hands are shaking. Hell is not something he wants to think about, in any context. Especially not the Sam context. “In Hell, you’ve got demons like Alistair who do the cutting. In the Cage, it’s all you.” Dean can’t swallow, he can’t _breathe_. “Every torture is one pulled out of your own head, so the escape was to get out of your head and into someone else’s. Michael’s shit out of luck, he’d burned Adam out the second the kid said yes. Long story short, Sammy helped me out back in the Cage. I’m a little indebted.”

The light turns green.

Dean drives.

Sam gets approximately 10 seconds’ warning before Dean yells, “Merry Christmas, Sammy!” in a sarcastic, falsely cheery voice, and then a grocery bag lands near his knees.

“Christmas was 15 days ago,” Lucifer and Cas call in unison, and he can see Dean scowl at them. The bag is full with two boxes of graham crackers, a huge bag of those jumbo marshmallows (the kind the he ate a whole bag of when he was six and proceeded to throw up all night), and about ten bars of the nice, fancy kind of chocolate. He can feel a grin spreading across his face.

Cas glances at the stuff he’s pulling out of the bag, and then looks at him like he’s crazy.

“ _That’s_ what goes into your s’mores things?” he says, and looks faintly disgusted.

“Whoa,” Dean cuts in, mock-offended, “don’t knock ‘till you try it.” He cuts through the plastic wrap on the firewood and dumps half of it unceremoniously into the fireplace. “C’mere, man, you should know how to light a fire.”

Sam snorts, puts all the food back in the bag, and brings it into the kitchen so that they’re not stuck getting everything sticky. Lucifer starts making himself a cup of drip coffee. Sam looks at him like he’s crazy and yanks the percolator’s plug out of the outlet.

“Hot chocolate, dude,” he says in response to Lucifer’s bitchface. “S’mores go with hot chocolate.”

“I’m gonna go with Castiel on this one.” Lucifer looks in the direction of the living room. “I can’t see any of that crap going well together.”

“Just trust me,” sighs Sam, and pulls down some bowls.

“Oh, but I do,” Lucifer murmurs. Sam pauses with a pack of graham crackers half-open and _fuck_ , the next thing he knows he’s reaching out to touch Lucifer, anywhere, hand skittering from his wrist to his bicep and finally ending up right where neck slopes down to meet shoulder. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of this thing yet but his fingers find cool flesh and he _pushes_ with his mind, opens that channel between them wider than it normally rests and keeps pushing, sends every scrap of emotion he has towards him.

“Sam,” breathes Lucifer, completely surprised, and Sam’s concentration breaks. The kitchen spins for a couple of seconds and he grabs the counter as his brain tries to accommodate the suddenness of _not_ -Lucifer.

“C’mon, Sam, get your ass over here with the food,” Dean calls from the living room. It seems a million miles away.

\---

By the time midnight rolls around, Dean’s already fallen asleep and jerked back awake at least three times in front of the fire. It’s down to just a pile of smoldering coals now; it makes the whole room look warm and full somehow, painting all their faces in red-orange. He’s got no idea how Cas and Sam can see well enough to still be plowing through that manuscript, but their voices are a low, soporific murmur and sleep threatens him yet again.

He announces with a yawn that he’s turning in, and Cas meets his eyes briefly when he stands and stretches. Sam mutters a distracted _‘night_ and keeps scribbling down whatever it is he’s scribbling down; he remembers the first three steps on the stairs and the next thing he knows, his face is buried deep in a pillow and there’s a warm weight behind him, a mouth softly caressing the back of his neck and a hand curved around his hip.

He turns around and Cas half-smiles at him for a split second before Dean kisses him, slow and deep, and he can taste marshmallows and graham crackers on him. His face is warm from sitting in front of the fire; his fingertips are cool as they dance under the hem of Dean’s shirt, across his hipbones, up his sternum. Dean sighs.

Afterwards, when he’s sprawled over Cas’s stomach and they’re both sticky and sweaty and trying to catch their breaths, Dean thinks about all the sex he’s had in the past.

He’s had great sex and awkward sex and normal everyday sex and weird sex but this, the quiet give and take, little gasps and slow kisses, it’s the first time he’s felt something in his chest unwind and spread through every inch of him, and it’s the first time he’s felt like there’s something _more_ at stake here than just the bliss of pleasure, more than just sex.

The adrenaline and endorphins still pounding through him make him complacent and loose and sappy; he presses a kiss against the inside of Cas’s thigh and tastes sweat-salt.

“Hey, Cas,” he murmurs, and slowly pulls himself back up to Cas’s collarbones, his neck, in a slow slide of still-sticky skin on skin. Cas hums in response, eyes still closed and hair sticking up crazily where Dean had wound his hands into it. “Normally you wouldn’t catch me saying things like this.” Cas pulls him down for a kiss. “But, uh...”

Cas shifts their weight and rolls on top of Dean, kisses him languidly, almost makes him forget what he was going to say.

“I know,” Cas murmurs. His mouth is warm on Dean’s neck but half his leg is sweat-cold against Dean’s. They’re inextricably tangled in the blanket; Dean is pretty sure he can’t straighten out his left leg, at least for the moment. “You don’t have to say it.”

Dean realizes that Cas is probably just as new to this and just as scared as he is. That they’re on the same page.

He kisses Cas again, short and soft, and pulls them as close together as they can possibly get.

Cas breathes his name, barely audible. Dean’s heard his name yelled and screamed and moaned in a thousand different ways but this one has to be his favorite, low and quiet and more intimate than anything. Cas runs a hand slowly up his forearm to his shoulder and fits his fingers perfectly against his own burned handprint.

“You raised me from perdition,” Cas whispers.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean feels really bad for laughing at Cas when he wakes up, says he feels like his face has been stuffed with snot and cotton, then rolls over and buries his face into a pillow.

Okay, no, he doesn’t feel _that_ bad for laughing at him, but it’s admittedly hilarious to see Cas griping over a cold.

He puts a wrist against Cas’s forehead and yeah, he’s burning up, poor guy. Cheeks flushed and everything. Dean cups his face in cold palms and presses a kiss to his temple; Cas snuffles unattractively.

“C’mon,” Dean murmurs, mouth quirking up, “you gotta eat somethin’ warm. Sam’ll get you tea with lemon and honey.” He sits up and gently eases Cas into sitting up with him with a couple of kisses, then slides out of bed and digs an old, oversized hoodie out of their makeshift closet-shelf.

Cas pulls the sweatshirt over his head and Dean has to try really, _really_ hard not to smile at his mussed hair and bleary eyes.

“This is an incredibly undesirable feeling,” Cas rasps, and leans forward against Dean’s chest. Dean can’t help chuckling.

“I know, babe,” he says, and runs a hand through Cas’s hair before kissing him. “You’re gonna get some food in you, then drink whatever concoction Sam comes up with, and then you’re gonna take a long shower. But first, you gotta brush your teeth, man.” He makes a face. “You taste nasty. Like, sick-nasty, not morning-breath-nasty.”

Cas nails him with an impressive _I could fucking smite you on the spot_ look and shuffles towards the bathroom.

Dean tugs on his really old, really soft, I’m-not-gonna-do-jack-shit-today jeans and a henley instead of the normal shirt-and-flannel combo because if there’s one thing he learned from taking care of a sick Sammy, it’s that the other person’s gonna want you to feel like a fucking blanket.

Sam and Lucifer are bundling up for their fucking pansy-ass morning coffee walk or whatever when he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey, Sam, where’s the tea?” he calls from the kitchen, opening cupboards in an attempt to find something that could possibly be a box of tea bags.

“ _You’re_ asking about _tea?_ ” Sam fires back skeptically, trying to wrestle a half-knotted scarf around his neck. Dean rolls his eyes and walks into the foyer.

“Cas got sick,” he explains defensively. “I’m pretty sure he’s got a fever, and he says he feels like shit.”

Sam and Lucifer share this _look_ – one of those Secret Club, No Deans Allowed looks – and then Lucifer tilts his chin up in a way that reminds Dean that one of the dudes in this room used to be the ruler of Hell.

“You better take care of him,” Lucifer says. Dean snorts.

“What do you think I’m _trying_ to do?”

“Okay,” Sam interrupts, obviously trying to stop a pissing match, “d’you want me to get him, like, a mint and chamomile infusion with honey?”

“Hell if I know,” Dean responds, and heads back in the kitchen. “Whatever tea with honey thing works, just get that.” Sam makes a disgruntled noise, and then he hears the noise of the door opening. “And bring back some pie!” The door snaps shut.

Well, _fine_.

Alright, so eggs and toast and bacon and hash browns. That sounds hearty enough. He throws some bread in the toaster and pulls out two pans, and by the time the toast is done, Cas plods into the kitchen and sits down at the table.

“So this is what a common cold feels like,” he mutters, all nasal-y and stuffed up. Dean grins at him and shakes out an ibuprofen into his hand.

“Fun, isn’t it?”

Cas downs the pill and then raises his eyebrows at the amount of food Dean is piling onto two plates.

“Maybe I should be sick more often, if it means you’re making me this much food,” he teases.

“You wish,” Dean snorts back, and sets two mountains of eggs and hash browns and bacon on the table. “Seriously, though, you gotta eat. You’ll feel less shitty.”

Cas gives him a small, grateful smile, and when his heart twists like that Dean knows he is so, so screwed.

 

 

Cas looks utterly miserable as he studies the seven rows of cold and flu medicine in front of him.

Dean can’t really blame him, but he’d _told_ Cas to stay home, he can sure as hell find a bottle of Tylenol by himself, and then Cas had responded that he wants to know how to do it himself, because what if he gets sick on his own some day? And then Dean had realized that a) the thought of life without Cas – in any way and at any point in the future – is a really terrifying thought, and b) the admittance that, basically, he’d be happy spending the rest of his life hanging around Cas is an even more terrifying thought.

So that’s how he ends up at Target with a sick, snuffling Cas in tow, still resolutely wrapped up in that hilariously oversized hoodie.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and Cas turns to look at him. “Let’s get you home, sicko.”

Cas just sort of sighs and looks at Dean and shit, he’s got way too much of a weakness for puppy-dog eyes. He pulls one of Cas’s hands out of the pocket of the sweatshirt and wraps his fingers between Cas’s clammy ones. “C’mon.” Cas responds by groaning and leaning forward to bury his face in the shoulder of Dean’s jacket.

He’s rubbing a circle into Cas’s back with his free hand when two gangly teenagers turn into their aisle, take one good look at Cas’s hands stuffed resolutely into the pockets of Dean’s jacket and Dean with soup cans and rice and cold medicine in his red plastic basket, and they start honest-to-god snickering.

“The fuck are you lookin’ at?” snaps Dean down the aisle.

A muffled, long-suffering _Dean_ comes from somewhere around his shoulder. The two guys trade wide-eyed looks and start laughing even harder, trying to stifle it and failing miserably. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Jesus christ, god forbid I freakin’ take care of my partner when he’s sick,” he continues under his breath. “C’mon, Cas, seriously.”

He turns both of them around, moving his free hand to join Cas’s in his pocket, and nearly runs face-first into a middle-aged lady who looks like her cat just died.

“Oh, honey,” she says, and makes this motion like she’s going to reach out and touch his arm, but thinks better of it. “I can’t imagine how horrible it must be for you, living your lives without the Lord. You should go to church more often, dear. That’ll help both of you make better lifestyle choices.” She’s got this simpering look on her face and Dean’s about to vomit.

“I’m so fucking done,” he snarls, and the hauls a half-conscious Cas out of the aisle and towards the registers.

“Apparently I didn’t do a good job of eliminating bigotry,” Cas mumbles quietly as they wait in an absurdly long line (‘express’ checkout, his ass).

Dean’s heart drops. It’s the first time Cas has actually talked about the whole God experience, barring that shitty fight they’d had back in Massachusetts. He’s completely at a loss for what to say so he just kisses Cas’s burning temple and pulls him close. Cas draws a shaky breath and drops his hands into the back pockets of Dean’s jeans and goddammit, he totally doesn’t think that’s adorable every time Cas does it.

“Um, excuse me?”

Dean closes his eyes and counts to three.

“Oh my god, _what?_ ” he grinds out, teeth gritted, and looks over to find the two lanky teenagers from the Cold/Flu/Sinus aisle standing by their checkout line with huge, doleful eyes.

“I– well, we wanted to apologize,” says one of them, pushing hair out of his eyes.

“We weren’t laughing at you, swear to god,” says the other one, earnestly. “It’s just that the douchey lady was behind you for like, five minutes, making this really grossed-out face.”

“Seriously, we’re really sorry if it looked rude,” the first one finishes up, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweater. “And get better soon, dude. Being sick sucks, but at least you’ve got a rad boyfriend.”

The two of them grin earnestly up at Dean and ugh, man, he’s half mollified, half grumpy, and one hundred percent done with today.

“Thank you for apologizing,” Cas rasps out, “and thank you for your well-wishes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, knowing he’s acting like A Grumpy Old Man, “go school that lady, not me.”

Their grins widen and they take off towards the pharmacy section of the store. Cas pulls the shopping basket out of Dean’s hands, perches it at the end of the cash register, and then scrutinizes Dean like he’s trying to figure something out.

“Boyfriend?” he says, like he’s not sure how the word fits in his mouth.

Dean’s face goes redder than the Target logo in two seconds, flat.

 

 

“You called me your partner,” Cas murmurs against the shell of Dean’s ear.

“Well, I– _shit_ –” Oh, he’s definitely close now. “–aren’t you supposed to be sick?” he manages to grind out, nails leaving tracks on Cas’s skin that are definitely gonna be there for the next few days, and then he grabs a fistful of Cas’s hair and _pulls_.

“Changing the subject,” Cas pants, eyelids fluttering. Sweet, sweet revenge.

“C-can we not–” He swallows, mouth dry, and lets his back arch up off the sheets, thanking every deity in existence he can think of that piling mattresses on top of each other means no squeaking bedframes and no headboards banging against walls. “–not right now, _fuck_ –” And then he’s going, going, gone, tumbling over the edge and sticky with sweat even though it’s the middle of winter and freezing cold outside the sheets.

They’re quiet for nearly ten minutes, breathing soft and deep, wrapped around each other. It’s funny because a year ago, Dean would’ve considered this terrifying. Now, it’s commonplace.

“Partner doesn’t– doesn’t cover it,” he eventually says. “I dunno, man. What the hell do you call someone who defied Heaven for you?”

Cas smiles softly at him and fuck, there’s that feeling in his chest again, letting him know just how totally screwed he is.

“Yours.”

 

 

It’s Cas’s turn to laugh when Dean wakes sick up two days later.

 

 

“I dunno,” Dean croaks, “anything with a decongestant. I can’t breathe.”

“If you get me sick, I’ll kill you,” Sam says seriously, eyebrows up and pointing an accusing finger towards the couch. “If _either_ of you get me sick,” he amends, as Cas shuffles out of the kitchen, holding two mugs of coffee and coughing into his shoulder. Dean just makes a noncommittal, raspy noise and turns the TV up. Sam huffs.

“Could you get some half-and-half, while you’re out?” Cas asks, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch from him and sliding one of the coffees in his direction. Dean gratefully wraps his hands around the hot mug.

“Why not just use regular milk?” mutters Lucifer under his breath, and Sam snatches the car keys out from under his hands. Thank god. He’d hate to see the Devil driving.

(Or, well, okay, maybe not thank _god_ , but still.)

“Goodbye,” Dean says loudly and pointedly, and he can hear Sam rolling his eyes on his way out with Lucifer.

“A ghost-hunting show?” Cas asks skeptically, then coughs again and it sounds like he’s hacking up a fucking lung. “ _Really?_ ”

“Shitty daytime TV,” Dean fires back, and pulls his two blankets closer around him. “It’s your fault I’m sick, asshole.”

“It’s your fault you slept with me,” Cas combats, amused, and Dean doesn’t really have an answer to that so he takes a long drink of coffee.

Cas makes a smug, self-satisfied noise and turns to curl himself into the corner of the couch. The poor guy is even sicker today than he was yesterday, thanks to a fever that was definitely over a hundred earlier and a cough that sounds shit-nasty. Dean is fervently hoping he doesn’t get to that point, as long as he keeps downing as many multivitamins as is safe.

He stretches out his legs on the couch and nudges Cas with his feet, which earns him an irritated glare.

“C’mere,” he grunts, and Cas makes a croaky sort of relieved noise and topples himself over onto Dean’s stomach, worms himself under the blankets, and Dean hisses when cold air hits his feverish skin. “ _Cas_ ,” he says, exasperated, but he doesn’t try to stop the hands worming under his shirt or the soft line of kisses Cas trails up his chest.

“I do apologize for getting you sick,” Cas murmurs, all throaty, once they’re curled around each other under three layers of blankets. Dean chuckles quietly and tucks an overgrown lock of hair behind Cas’s ear before kissing his hairline.

“We’ve got an excuse to sleep all day,” says Dean, grinning. “No need to apologize for that.”

 

\---

 

Lucifer chuckles conspiratorially as Sam struggles with the lock on the front door, and Sam shoots him an irritated look because the things that make Lucifer laugh are almost never actually funny.

“Home,” he calls out, but the word dies in his throat because there’s a motionless mound of blankets on the couch and the TV is on low and whoever’s there must be asleep.

He shrugs and starts putting their shit away in the kitchen. Lucifer’s actually helping rather than hindering this time but there’s an edge to his amusement this time, a hint of _I know something you don’t_ that’s going to drive Sam crazy unless he ignores it. Good thing he’s fantastic at ignoring stuff that irritates him.

There’s some shitty daytime soap opera playing on the TV and Sam heads over to turn it off, because he sure as hell doesn’t want to listen to it.

And then he realizes who’s on the couch.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dean look so _relaxed_. He’s curved gently into Cas and they’re one big lump under what looks like half the blankets in the house; Lucifer is conveniently elsewhere, he notes, as Cas coughs softly in his sleep and pushes himself closer under Dean’s neck. Dean, in turn, just shifts with him and snores on.

He’s– well. Sam is flabbergasted, to be honest. Dean is highly allergic to anything touchy-feely and this is so far out of the bounds of anything Dean’s ever done with another person (excepting when they were younger) that Sam finds himself staring down at Dean and Cas for a full minute, trying to process it.

Well, okay.

He walks back into the kitchen and starts boiling some water, because he might as well start the anti-getting-sick measures right now.

“You know I won’t let you get sick, right?” says Lucifer, amused. Sam frowns.

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean I won’t let you get sick,” Lucifer repeats, standing up to lean against the counter next to Sam, way too far into his personal space bubble.

“You can do that?” snorts Sam, a little skeptical. That sounds a little too much like wishful thinking.

“Su casa es mi casa,” says Lucifer, shrugging. “I can do a lot of things.”

Sam blinks a couple of times because he’s _pretty_ sure that Lucifer is still, for lack of a better term, on his leash.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “so what about Dean and Cas, then? _They’re_ sick.”

“You know, you’re awfully thick sometimes,” Lucifer fires back wryly. “I’m a part of _you_. With _you_ , I can _do_ things.”

“Like what?”

The words are out of his mouth before he knows what he’s saying and oh, god, curiosity killed the cat. This’ll be the end of him, he thinks, as Lucifer reaches out and brushes his fingers against Sam’s temple.

It starts as a slow wave and then builds up exponentially, crashes over him as the lightning-sharp, blindingly thunderous ecstasy rips through his body, a shock of adrenaline that roars in his abdomen and makes his thighs shiver and knees shake. It lasts less than a full second but he’s panting when Lucifer’s fingers leave his skin with a spark of static electricity, trembling as he grabs the counter for support.

“What the hell,” he gasps, mouth dry and tongue heavy. Lucifer winks.

“Like I said,” he murmurs, “I can do things.”

“How about we don’t do that again,” Sam mutters, and takes a deep breath. Wow, okay, he needs to go take a cold shower ASAP.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean doesn’t really know when this whole thing _happened_ , but somewhere along the road, Cas became an open book to him. Maybe it was in the angels’ Green Room when he just knew that there were chinks in his armor, or when Cas asked if he could tell him something, if he promised not to tell another soul, or when Cas zapped him out from right under Zachariah’s nose.

Hell, maybe Cas has always been an open book to him, and he’d taken it for granted. It’s been easier than ever to read him since that night in a basement in Maine, lit up starkly by a dying road flare, and he knows each subtle nuance of Cas’s face almost as well as he knows Sam’s.

He knows the way Cas’s eyebrows twitch together, ever so slightly, when he remembers something he was supposed to do; he knows the way Cas’s hand curls around his when he’s comforting without words, when he’d say _it’s okay, we’ll find Sam_ without even opening his mouth; he knows the way all of the muscles in his stomach clench and spasm, draw tighter than a bowstring when he’s teetering on the verge of orgasm.

This? The tight shoulders, distant eyes, still hands, it all means that Cas is thinking hard on something that’s bothering him and whatever it is, it’s worked _just so_ under his skin.

After breakfast, Dean tracks Cas down to his usual corner in the sunroom and rounds on him as he’s staring absently out into the falling snow and disgustingly cheerful lights outside. And okay, sure, it’s kinda pretty, with the sun not having completely cleared the suburb-skyline yet, glowing faintly behind the clouds belching out snow.

“Talk to me,” he grunts, leaning on the doorway, arms crossed. “Somethin’s eating at you.”

Cas rolls his eyes – that’s one he definitely learned from Sam – and closes his book before standing and letting a yawn take over his body, shirt hitching up and pants riding down to confirm that yes, Cas took his jeans again. Bastard.

So _maybe_ Dean’s a sucker for the fact that Cas wears his clothes, but that’s not important right now.

“You and Sam don’t celebrate Christmas,” he says bluntly before sitting back down, long fingers folded together in his lap.

“That’s what has you worked up?” Dean side-eyes him, hard. “Dude, you know Sam and I aren’t big on Christmas. For, like, _every_ reason.”

“Of course I know,” Cas replies, matter-of-factly, like it’s 100% normal that, you know, he _actually knows everything about Dean_.

“We’re goin’ out,” comes Sam’s yell from down the stairs, then the squeak of the opening door.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean shouts back, right before the lock clicks. He sits down next to Cas on the window bench and Cas leans slightly into him, so that they’re touching knee to hip. “What’s your deal with Christmas?”

“It’s a time for families to be together, and to celebrate family,” he replies, turning his head to look at Dean. “You don’t think that you and Sam should celebrate each other?”

It takes a lot of self-restraint for Dean not to roll his eyes.

“Dude, you sound like a shitty Hallmark card.” Cas gives him a _look_ and Dean sighs. “It’s not– well, okay.” They’re having sort of A Moment so he figures what the hell.

He fumbles his way through an explanation of Christmases with John and his last (pre-resurrection) Christmas with Sam and exactly what the amulet he used to wear means and that Christmas is just kinda pointless for them now, you know? and Cas lets him talk and blurt it all out in spite of the fact that he knows all of this shit, because he also knows that this is catharsis for Dean. How he got so fucking lucky as to know Castiel – to know him and to _know_ him, like, _biblically_ know him, and isn’t that kinda ironic? – he’ll never understand.

Cas leans forward and kisses him on the forehead, with a strange, childlike solemness. “I’ve seen every corner of your soul, Dean Winchester,” he murmurs, “and yet you remain to me a complete mystery.” Dean doesn’t really know what to do with that information except kiss him long and slow, so that’s exactly what he does. His skin is tingling when Cas stands up and walks out of the sunroom, pulling his shirt off as he goes, then raises an eyebrow at him from the doorway. Dean’s really kinda wondering where Cas learned this whole movie-style pseudo-casual-and-macho-sexy bullshit but at the same time he really doesn’t care, just runs his hands up Cas’s sides and crowds him up against their doorframe, lets himself get pulled into their room.

 

 

He knows what Cas is asking even before he feels it whispered into his skin, because he can read it in the way Cas’s body is curved and trembling, in the way his fingers sweep over Dean’s hips and yes, yes, Dean breathes it out because there’s no better time than right now, when Cas pulling sounds from Dean’s throat he didn’t know he was capable of making, when Cas’s moans are more quiet breaths than anything, exhalations that dance, ghosts that linger in the air around them.

Cas approaches sex with the same brutally thoughtful consideration he approaches everything else, and this is just another chapter; he’s gentle in a way learned from millennia of watching people do this, years of Dean’s memories, countless hours of exploring Dean’s skin, and it’s so beautiful, so goddamn Castiel, that Dean can actually feel his eyelashes getting wet by the time orgasm rolls through his bones and Cas is reduced to a shivering mess propped over him, framed between his thighs, cheeks flushed and eyes alive.

He nudges Cas back up to his chest and pulls him close, wraps a possessive hand around the back of his head and grabs much too tightly at his back.

“God, Cas,” he whispers brokenly into his hair, still shaking, still sweaty, still aching, still a complete wreck. Cas’s forehead is pressed tightly into his neck and christ, how did the hell did they end up _needing_ each other so much?

Dean’s never had much experience with normal family dynamics, not growing up the way he did, not with going to Hell and back for his brother, not with his brother jumping into the Devil’s box and coming back out for him. Maybe Famine was wrong, back then -- he doesn’t hunger for things because he _needs_. He needs Sam more than he needs air sometimes and it still frightens him as much as it’s something that’s day-to-day, but _Cas_. Cas is something altogether different, a different kind of need that’s more terrifying than anything else because Cas is family that don’t end with blood, Cas is family, Cas is his and theirs and there’s no letting him go. He needs his family.

Well, he thinks, maybe Cas has kind of a point with this whole Christmas thing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Dean, what the hell,” he asks flatly, because _what the hell_. He’d been gone less than three hours and suddenly the house _actually fucking smells like food_ and there’s a sad-looking three-foot-tall Noble fir sitting by the fireplace with what looks like a spool of 99-cent ribbon thrown haphazardly on it.

“Uh, it’s Christmas,” Dean says, looking slightly uncomfortable under his scrutinizing. “So, you know, time for food’n’shit.”

“Last time you wanted a Christmas, you were about to die,” Sam fires back, forcing down the panic that’s started to well up in him. “You’re not– what the hell did– Cas, what the hell did Dean _do?_ ”

Lucifer’s mirth is dancing his his bones like a kindergartener poking at him with a stick, but unfortunately this isn’t a kindergartener he can just swat away. Sam steadfastly ignores him and focuses on the actual problem at hand.

“Dean isn’t in danger,” Cas says, lifting the lid of a pot on the stove and giving whatever’s in there an extremely skeptical look. “I suggested we celebrate Christmas.”

Oh. _Shit_. Cas has been on earth, what – two, three millennia? – and he’s probably never celebrated Christmas. He’s probably never had the chance and now he’s goddamn _human_ , stuck here because of him and Dean. Well, fuck. Sam sure as hell isn’t the biggest fan of Christmas but he’ll do his damn best to give Cas a good one, past Christmases notwithstanding.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The tree is half-brown and shedding needles by the time the food is pronounced mostly edible; it’s really only thanks to Sam that they’d been able to salvage it, and the meat’s a little burnt but Dean loves it anyways because it’s their own fuckin’ homemade Christmas dinner, what’s there not to love? Sam loosens up with some eggnog (which, coincidentally, is much more alcohol than eggnog) and then Cas decides to spark a debate with him over Christian versus pagan lore. When Lucifer starts to butt in, Dean just tunes the fuck out and goes back to watching whatever the hell this movie is and ditches the eggnog for the rum.

His family is so fucking _weird_.

He wouldn’t trade ‘em for the world.


End file.
